


Chances

by SoulJelly



Category: Code Lyoko
Genre: Multi, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-27
Updated: 2013-04-27
Packaged: 2017-12-09 17:54:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/776305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoulJelly/pseuds/SoulJelly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For as long as you have known each other, there are times when things might have gone differently.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chances

You are four years old, in your favourite yellow dress with a pink ribbon in your hair, and about to attend school for the first time.

It's raining outside and so indoors is filled with children your age; some loud and energetic, others nervous and withdrawn, the rest busy making friends and sharing out the toys that litter the place. You roll a pink plastic car across the floor and wave to your father across the room, where he sits in a small chair with a newspaper in hand; he smiles back at you with tired eyes.

Then a boy comes in with both of his parents. You don't pay any attention until you hear the soft sniffles that tell you the boy has been crying; after that you look up and catch his eyes, red-rimmed and wet with tears, for a moment, before he once again hides his face in the hem of his mother's skirt. His father says something in French with a German accent. He sounds mean and the boy shrinks away from him.

The toy car is forgotten as you stare curiously at the boy.

You want to go to him and you aren't sure why, because you hate it when people cry - especially grown-ups, especially Daddy. You think perhaps you want to be friends, or perhaps you too want to press your face into a mother's skirt because your own mother isn't here any more, and although it will be a long time before you truly understand, she isn't coming back.

Or maybe you want to protect the boy from the scary man. You know  _your_  father would never be so mean to you.

As though to confirm this to yourself, you turn back to the chair where your Daddy sits and see him watching you. You give him your brightest smile and this time, he waves.

The boy's mother bends down, gathers her son in her arms and brushes his floppy brown hair away from his face. She takes a tissue from her pocket and gently wipes his eyes, talking kindly to him in German. The boy nods, sets his face into a determined expression, and then the scary man leads his wife away, addressing the boy sternly in German over his shoulder.

The door closes with an air of finality as the man and woman leave the room; the boy's face crumples. He sits down heavily on the floor, defeated.

Still you watch, and wait.

And then your own Daddy comes over to you, bends down like the boy's mother did, puts his hands on your shoulders and stares into your wide brown eyes. He has to go now, he says, and _you have a good day at school Elisabéth, I'll be back at 4 to pick you up._  You hug him tightly goodbye for a long time and the scratchiness of his beard, not shaved for a while now, tickles your cheek. But you are brave, braver than the German boy, and you don't cry as your Daddy walks away because you  _know_  he will come back.

He has to; he promised.

But then you know all about broken promises and as the door opens and closes once more, swallowing your father up, the fear threatens to overwhelm you. You might cry then, just a little bit, but you turn away so that nobody can see.

The day goes on, and the weather grows warmer and brighter and drier, releasing the children into the schoolyard where the little boy sits by himself in the sandpit. He speaks French with the same German accent as his parents and when he doesn't know the words in French he fills in the gaps with German. His voice is so quiet and mumbled that you have to ask him to repeat himself three times before you find out his name.

Ulrich.

Elisabéth, you tell him. Sissi.

You aren't sure he hears you. He seems lost in another world, scraping patterns onto the sand with his once-gleaming trainers, pale face still streaked with tear-tracks.

You wish you knew how to reach him because you want to tell him that you are also afraid of being left alone.

Just as you make to sit down beside him, a group of girls calls your name. They are a group of giggles with glossy hair, decked in flowers, ribbons and pink, armed with dolls and cute gap-toothed smiles. They will help you to ignore the gut-clenching fear in your stomach until your Daddy comes back at the end of the school day; they will share your secrets and they will become your best friends. Gratefully, you run over to join them.

You don't notice Ulrich watch you go.

The thought never occurs to you, not once in all the years that follow, but if you had stayed with him then, maybe - just maybe - things would have been different.

* * *

You and Ulrich grow up together, in a vague sense of the word.

Your bond with those girls only strengthens and it seems unfair somehow that you should have so many friends whilst he has none. Ulrich, small and scrawny and tearful, still with that German accent that automatically marks him as different, is a prime target for teasing. You don't notice it - or, well, maybe you do, but at six and seven and eight years old it is hard to put yourself in Ulrich's shoes, and even harder to stand up to the bigger boys and girls in your class. You are safe, exempt from bullying in your tight-knit circle of friends, and self-preservation keeps you silent.

During those years you come out of your shell and Ulrich remains in his.

You always head home in the same direction, and there is a ten minute stretch after you split off from your group of friends where the sidewalk is empty but for you and that one boy walking up ahead.

This is another chance here to kindle the fires of friendship but only hindsight is twenty-twenty, and in the present it slips silently through your fingers.

* * *

When you are both nine years old, Ulrich finds his calling.

The school playing field is split between two groups; girls playing rounders and boys playing soccer. You are in a sporty phase and you pace impatiently in the outfield, smacking an ant away from its pursuit up one skinny ankle. The next member of the opposition steps up to bat, looking awkward and nervous. There is the loud smack of a ball on a bat. By some fluke it is a perfect shot and it sails high through the sky towards you in a smooth arc before bouncing and rolling past. Ponytail flying behind you, the wind in your hair, you give chase, skidding to a halt as your hand closes triumphantly over the ball.

You are at the edge of the makeshift soccer pitch and you find yourself stopping to watch as Ulrich takes possession of the ball. On his face is an expression of pure focus, jaw gritted in determination. Your classmates charge him but Ulrich dives over a sliding tackle as though he is flying. His feet rejoin with solid ground with a thud and he guides the ball smoothly up the rest of the field, slamming it powerfully into the net.

Ulrich is surrounded by his team mates who bombard him with cheers and high fives, and he gives a rare smile which lights up his face like the sun breaking through the clouds.

You are so caught in the moment, basking in the glow of Ulrich's happiness, that you don't hear people shouting your name at first. Then you remember with a jolt that you are still holding the rounders' ball and there is a game going on. Swinging back your arm, and surprising yourself with a decent throw, you hurl the offending ball back into play and turn your back on your own game in favour of admiring Ulrich.

That focused expression becomes his trademark and his soccer prowess wins match after match.

So focused is he that he never acknowledges you when stand on the sidelines, through cold weather and warm, watching each and every game.

Here is yet another chance, but it isn't you who misses it this time.

* * *

Adolescence creeps up on you slowly; not quite there yet, but hovering close enough to prompt the beginning of embarrassed giggles and school yard rumours. You miss your mother more than ever as you muddle through confusing questions about bodily changes and new emotions, and your father tries as best he can but the awkward talks hurt so much because the long stretches of silence remind you both exactly who isn't here to fill them. You embrace your Daddy, breathe in the smell of his sweater and aftershave and feel the scratch of the beard that never quite left against your cheek, and you cry a little as you cling to the only other person in the world you know for certain you have left.

Later that same year, he comes to you with a proposition.

He has been offered a new job, as headteacher of an prestigious academy. The plus sides: more money, and you get to live in a school, in Paris! But you will have to leave everything behind; your home, your school, your friends, Ulrich.

If you want to stay here, your father reassures you, they will. He only asks you to consider it.

You meet his eyes over the kitchen table and with a flash of wisdom far beyond your years, it strikes you that your father might be aching to get away. That there might be memories here that still haunt him, even after all these years.

And who knows; a fresh start could be good for you, too.

Yes, you tell him. Let's go.

* * *

You are eleven years old, fashionably dressed and convinced that you act much older, and you are about to attend Kadic Academy for the first time.

Principal Delmas - you note your Daddy's name badge on his smart new suit with a burst of pride - smiles directly at you as he addresses the auditorium of gathered staff and students. He welcomes you all to a new school year; he looks forward to his first year as headteacher here and looks forward to getting to know you all. Then your heart skips a beat as a familiar head of brown hair enters your vision from a few rows in front. He mutters something to the person beside him and sure enough it is a familiar voice, one whose foreign accent only barely remains, eroded by years of living in France.

You can hardly believe it. A token from your past, nostalgia wrapped up in the form of a boy, sits before you. Ulrich is a boarder here too.

He leaves the auditorium before you can speak to him that day, and your excited greeting dies on your lips as you watch him melt into the crowd.

Your world is beginning to progress, from dolls and dresses to make-up and boys. Romance movies and teen magazines fill your head with flighty ideas about love and fate, and now Ulrich is right there after all this time. You grow convinced that it was meant to be as over the weeks and months your lingering fascination with this boy begins to transmute into something else. You find yourself wanting to press your mouth against his lips, run your hands through the softness of his hair, and imagining doing these things sends butterflies exploding in your stomach.

And this must be love, you decide.

You are in love with Ulrich Stern, and it is confusing and exciting and frustrating and beautiful all at once.

During this time of your life you are at once arrogant and insecure. Perhaps sometimes you are bratty and gossip a little too meanly, but isn't that just how teenagers are? Whether it is or isn't, the art of making friends has long gone unpractised with you, and you hide your upset over your loneliness beneath a loud and brash exterior. Confident as you may act, you have long since lost touch with the little girl who thought nothing of approaching this boy in a sandpit years ago. You cannot channel her boldness or curiosity and you resort to watching Ulrich from afar.

Ulrich on the other hand, is firmly in touch with the shy and insecure boy of his youth. He ducks his head, keeps himself to himself, and you are never to know it but he looks around at this posh school and is forever nagged by the knowledge that he doesn't fit. And when he attends this prestigious school due to the size of his parents' bank account rather than his test scores, how can he possibly feel good enough to approach Sissi Delmas?

This time he misses, and so do you.

* * *

You and Ulrich are thirteen years old when Yumi Ishiyama transfers in.

She is a year older than you, tall and skinny with pale skin emphasised by dark clothes. You want to deny it but you can't lie to yourself; she is beautiful.

And Ulrich... Ulrich is smitten.

Yumi is, you think, kind of like an Ulrich in female form; reclusive, stoic, more comfortable speaking in her native tongue than in French. She eats her lunch in dainty bites, lost in thought, unaware that Ulrich stares at her from across the room with quiet infatuation. You're sure they've never spoken before but you can tell that Ulrich feels a connection with her. Both foreigners, both outsiders. But too similar, you think; Ulrich needs someone louder, someone brighter and more cheerful. Someone like you, of course. You want to tell him that you understand him too, but you can't find the words. You have history together, you want to remind him, but in the face of a beautiful stranger all of that seems to be forgotten.

With no one to approach on matters of the heart, your only guidance is television and teen magazines. They've taught you jealousy, competition, and nothing in the art of subtlety. In the past two years Ulrich has grown tired of your brash, mean ways and the sudden, embarrassing flirting, but he never tells you that. The brush-offs are silent, glaring, and leave you secretly tearful.

Yet your love never wavers. With Yumi's presence threatening to steal Ulrich away, you resolve to try harder.

Things continue in that way and then, a few months later, everything happens at once. Odd Della Robbia, Jérémie Belpois, Yumi Ishiyama and Ulrich Stern - strangers one day and best friends the next. You have no idea what happened, you cannot even begin to guess, but suddenly everything is reversed from how it used to be; Ulrich has friends where you have none, looks at another girl the way you look at him.

You had one more chance that you didn't take.

Thankfully someone pressed a key on a keyboard somewhere, and now you are spared the agony of remembering it.


End file.
